


Corazón Espinado

by brodinsons (aeon_entwined)



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: (Not), Angst, Blind Character, Canon Compliant, Canon-Typical Violence, M/M, Reunited and It Feels So Good
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-25
Updated: 2016-06-25
Packaged: 2018-07-18 02:29:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,083
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7295887
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aeon_entwined/pseuds/brodinsons
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After saving the young girl and losing the Los Muertos gang, Jack Morrison encounters a ghost from his past.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Corazón Espinado

**Author's Note:**

  * For [nikorys](https://archiveofourown.org/users/nikorys/gifts).



> (Also blame niko up there for the title. I asked for input and went for it.)
> 
> DISCLAIMER: I am not a gamer. I am a Fake Geek Girl™. I have not played Overwatch, nor any other popular video game to date. (I'm also old and grumpy like Dad 76, but that's besides the point.) I am EXTREMELY nervous about posting this, because I have the vaguest possible grasp on Overwatch lore and I'm probably doing both these assholes a terrible disservice with my lack of contextual knowledge.
> 
> I've just been dragged into bitter old man hell via fandom osmosis and I never stood a chance. (If there's enough interest, I might be prompted to tack on a spicier coda set a little while later in the timeline, but we'll see...) I've incorporated some fanon favorites too, so I'll list them out here:
> 
> My Jack is mostly blind thanks to injuries sustained after the explosion, and the tactical visor enhances his vision enough to rival his old prowess in combat. A concept which owes a debt to [this individual](http://visor76.tumblr.com/tagged/blind76) and their continuing dedication to the headcanon.
> 
> My Gabe is physically patterned after [this stunning rendering](http://cranitys-art.tumblr.com/post/146087048887/the-most-angstiest-dads-ive-ever-seen-tbh) by @cranitys-art. There are SO MANY beautiful artistic interpretations of Gabe but I've gone and fallen in love with that one. 
> 
> Also, there will be ACCOMPANYING ART!!! which I will both link and post here when it's finished.

Jack barely manages to turn his head from the panadería before there’s a smoky vortex coalescing around him, followed by a hollow laugh that raises the hairs on the back of his neck.

He’s seen the Reaper in action plenty of times before now. 

He has his own suspicions about the reputed terrorist’s origins, but he hasn’t gotten close enough to confirm anything. Hasn’t really _wanted to_ , when it comes down to it.

Standing in front of your own grave tends to give you a bit of an appreciation for the malleability of life in general these days.

Out of all the opponents he’s run into while covered up by this new identity with a new mission, Reaper is the most dangerous. His arsenal isn’t particularly notable, especially given what the Overwatch and Blackwatch teams handled, but it’s his ability to just _disappear_ into nothing. He figures Reaper is capable of being injured, like anybody else, but you have to actually _hit_ the bastard first. That’s a little difficult when he can just dissolve into what Jack can only assume is mist at the drop of a hat.

Jack fumbles for the safety on his rifle, the injuries from the blast slowing his reaction time just enough for Reaper to materialize fully and wrest it from his grip, tossing it aside with another echoing chuckle.

He squints at the masked figure, trying to figure out if there’s a modulator underneath it like his own mouthpiece provides to distort his real voice. Reaper isn’t attacking, but Jack falls into a defensive stance regardless, both fists clenched lightly at his waist.

“Oh, but I’ve been looking forward to this day for a _long_ time,” Reaper informs him, the metallic quality of his voice making it so Jack can almost feel those clawed gauntlets scraping down the length of his spine.

“Really,” Jack furrows his brow, widening his stance as he prepares for an offensive. “Sorry I can’t say the same, then.”

Reaper rushes him, faster than the enhanced soldiers Overwatch once employed, and Jack doesn’t even have time to shift his weight to counter the attack. Reaper’s weight, which is surprising given how often he seems to be made of nothing but smoke, carries them both over onto the flat roof behind Jack’s perch, knocking the wind out of him.

Reaper’s clawed gloves slice effortlessly through the material of his jacket and undershirt, prompting a wince and pained hiss when the talons in his side find the shrapnel wound from the blast. Jack struggles, but the sharp points only bite in deeper and he finally goes still, panting, staring up at the featureless mask through the tint of his own visor. 

“So _sentimental_.” Reaper practically coos against where the shell of his ear is beneath the tactical gear, and Jack can’t tell if he’s talking about the antics with saving the girl or something else entirely.

“Caring about what we did didn’t used to be considered a weakness,” he bites back, baring his teeth as Reaper’s claws dig sharply into his side, the sluggish pulse of wetness soaking through his jacket telling him that Reaper’s probably torn through some muscle and arteries in trying to keep him pinned.

“What _we_ did?” Reaper catches him out, exactly as he intended.

Jack doesn’t give him the satisfaction of a reply, just grits his teeth and shoves his chin up a little higher, unafraid. 

“You always did have a high opinion of yourself-” Reaper snarls, releasing the grip on his side to reach up and tear the visor off his face.

Jack reacts on instinct, rolling away and scrambling to his feet even as his vision bleeds to splotchy light and dark patches without the visor’s assistance. Blood loss and the rest of the trauma mean he’s swaying on his feet, even as he tries to get his bearings and remember where he saw the rifle fall in reference to Reaper’s position.

He cocks his head from side to side, his sense of hearing ratcheting up to an almost painful degree as the rest of his senses try to compensate for the sudden lack of visual input.

“…Morrison?”

The voice, unmodulated and probably unmasked, is familiar enough that what’s left of his heart almost cracks right down the center. Jack inhales sharply, the corners of his eyes prickling, and he swings his head towards it, trying to estimate how close Re- _Gabriel_ is.

“What the hell? _Morrison_.”

Jack obediently hones in on the voice, and tries to edge around where he estimates Gabriel to be and where he remembers his rifle having fallen.

“Hey, no,” Gabriel’s closer than before, too close. “None of that.”

Large gloved hands close around his wrists, freezing him in place, and Jack wants to _scream_. He wants to forget this ever happened. He wants to escape so he doesn’t have to listen to the man he loved and remember everything they did to destroy all they built together.

“Look at me, cabrón,” Gabriel orders firmly, and Jack shivers in spite of himself, flicking his eyes towards where he can safely assume the man’s face is, then immediately away. 

Silence reigns for a moment, and he can feel Gabriel’s fingers tightening on his wrists. He can’t tell if it’s in anger, or relief, or something else entirely.

“Jack…” Gabriel’s voice comes out gentler, and Jack wants to deck him. “Fuck, what did they do to you?”

“We both lost,” he says, sharp and brittle. “You got your end and I got mine.”

One of the hands gripping his wrist disappears, and he almost flinches when it comes to rest on his cheek instead. There’s warmth bleeding through the material of the glove, which startles him, and he blinks, damning his own useless eyes when he just wants to be able to read Gabriel’s expression.

“I’m not sorry,” Gabriel tells him, and it’s a weight off his shoulders to know they aren’t going to have some bullshit therapy session after all these years. “We did what we had to.”

It’s fair, really. Losing your sight and losing the tenuous grasp on your human condition are pretty equitable testaments to that. He breathes out, harsh and ragged, and the hand Gabriel still has on his wrist slides up to grip his elbow.

“Gabe-“

The name falls out of his mouth almost involuntarily and he clenches his eyes shut, trembling like the love-struck nineteen-year-old he once was as a familiar brow comes to rest against his own.

“I never wanted to hurt you,” Gabe whispers, and Jack finally gets control of himself enough to fist both hands in the man’s ostentatious overcoat. “I wanted to _kill_ you sometimes, but fuck…I didn’t want to hurt you.”

“You said it first, we made our mistakes,” Jack congratulates himself on keeping his voice mostly steady. “Now we get to live with ‘em.”

Gabe’s brow is a steady weight against his own, until there’s a shift and breath that smells like smoke washes over his lips. Fuck, but he _wants_. All those years after the disaster and all he’s had for company are memories of a dead man.

“Gabe…”

The kiss, when it comes, is softer than he was anticipating. Gabe’s lips are almost as warm as he remembers, plush and incredibly distracting. Jack’s hands scramble up the front of Gabe’s tactical gear until he can fumble his fingers over the shorn scalp above Gabe’s ears and into the soft curls he remembers pulling and stroking for days on end. 

In another life.

“Missed you,” he tries to press the words into Gabe’s mouth even as his voice cracks and the tears prickling at the corners of his eyes finally fall. “ _God_ , missed you so much-“

Gabe brings a broad hand up, cradling the back of his head, and Jack feels like he could go completely limp without any fear of falling. Gabe’s always been able to hold his weight. Fuck. He convinced himself he put this to bed _years_ ago. Maybe the universe is just out to prove him wrong as many times as it can before it kills him.

Gabe’s teeth sinking into his lower lip is enough to bring him back to the present and Jack inhales sharply, eyes snapping open. The rumble of laughter against his mouth is just as familiar as the rest of it, and Jack’s chest clenches, makes him wonder if he’s just deluding himself, prolonging his walk to the hangman’s noose. 

“Hey,” Gabe thumbs over his chin and Jack glances up, searching in vain for the eyes he’ll never see again. “There you are, guapo.”

Jack flushes at the teasing endearment, tilting his head slightly until Gabe catches it in the cup of his palm. Jack lifts a hand, covering the back of Gabe’s, and sighs, aching exhaustion settling into his bones now that the fight-or-flight adrenaline is fading.

“Woah, there…”

He only realizes he’s started swaying on his feet when Gabe’s pulling his arm across shoulders even broader than his own. They were always almost of a height, but Gabe always seemed bigger. Maybe because of his rank superiority back in the army, or his age, Jack was never quite sure. But he always felt safe with Gabe around. Even when they had their differences, they still had the trust built long before Overwatch came into being.

Right up until the end, even.

Now they’re both dead men hiding behind masks, trying to outrun the past lives that are only closing in on them faster by the day.

“You look like shit, Jack,” Gabe snorts, half carrying his weight as they move across the roof until Jack can tell they’ve stepped under an awning of sorts as the shadows get darker.

“Should know,” Jack mutters as he’s gently eased against what feels to be a solid wall. “Had your goddamn claws up my intestines.”

The muffled quality to Gabe’s laughter tells him he’s either trying to smother it or turned away completely. Jack huffs indignantly, but can’t help the way his lips quirk up at the corners.

“I’ll have you know I was nowhere _near_ your intestines,” Gabe seems to be making an effort to get his jacket open and Jack frowns. “No, don’t give me that. I’m helping you out before my common sense gets back.”

Once Gabe finishes with the zipper and pushes the rest open, he pauses. Jack can hear the stillness settling again, and it’s only very belatedly that he realizes Gabe must be staring at the dog tags hanging on the chain around his neck; charred and warped in places, but still legible. 

“Y’know, you take carrying the torch to a whole ‘nother level, you fucking bastard.”

Jack huffs and leans against the wall at his back, rapidly losing the high ground as Gabe keeps pulling his defenses down, figuratively and literally. 

“I …love you,” he stumbles very briefly over the word, almost using the past tense but now more terrified that using the present is what will wreck this for good. “Sentimental or not, it’s the truth.”

Gabe doesn’t respond to that, and Jack really wasn’t expecting him to. He picks up the sound of tearing fabric, then hisses as there’s suddenly pressure against his side. Judging by the movements of Gabe’s hands, he’s field dressing the wound as well as he can with no medical supplies on hand. Jack exhales silently, slumping further against the wall.

“There’s no happy ending for people like us.” Gabe says, and Jack flinches even with his eyes already closed. 

Then, there’s a hand on his chin and he forces them open again, pointless as the gesture is.

“Maybe we should just make it up as we go,” Gabe’s voice pitches slightly lower, and there’s a brush of lips over his own. “Sound good, farmboy?”

Jack barks a laugh and tries to shove at Gabe’s chest, but his limbs aren’t cooperating the way he wants them to. Gabe catches his hands regardless, gently pushing them down onto his lap so he doesn’t fuck the patch job up.

“Sounds better than everything I’d been thinking up till now,” he admits. “Maybe you can take point on this one.”

Gabe’s silent for a minute or so, and Jack almost thinks he’s dissipated into that damned smoke again, but there’s the distinct tread of heavy boots on the roof a few feet away and Jack realizes he hasn’t left. It’s more comforting than it has any right to be.

“Maybe I can.”


End file.
